Baba Yaga's Curse
by Icefrosty
Summary: The moonless night is merciless to virgin blood. Ivan knows this well. So when, one such night, his daughter, Galiacia Volhynia  a once independant state  does not arrive as expected, he suspects the evil-doing of a being no foriegner could ever imagine.
1. The Daughter Not There

Chapter 1: The Daughter Not There

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_My daughter when you were small_

_How I wanted to eat you._

_Cast off flesh of my flesh_

_I wanted to keep you in me,_

_Digest my fear of losing you as I swallowed_

_You whole, plumped and roasted._

_Can you forgive the way I fretted over the oven_

_And took the measure of your_

_Wrists with my worried fingers?_

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Ivan had never been one to allow anxiety to invade his mind, but tonight, finding himself increasingly distracted by household duties as he urgently scoured the silent gardens outside his home for any sign of her, the embodiment of Russia felt he was on the brink of giving in.

It had been over an hour since his eldest daughter, Galicia Volhynia, was meant to arrive from Poland's house as part of her monthly visits.

No shadow moved outside in the steady gloom of nightfall enclosing the land in its cold, iron grip.

Chewing at his lip, Ivan ventured to shove the gnawing pressure in the pit of his stomach away by busying himself with the dishes. A pointless task, given the sheer scale of the stacks of dirty china-ware looming on both sides of the sink...but at this point anything would suffice to quench his steady panic.

_She will be back any minute, _he told himself firmly as he scrubbed away, _Poland has kept her up with some ridiculous errand again, no doubt._

Forcing himself to focus solely on rubbing the plates spotless, stirring up the mixture of soap and water until his hands were lost in the procuring foam, Ivan recalled the day he, shortly after his collapse at the hands of his own warring rulers, had birthed his eldest child, who had subsequently settled in the region of the two south-west states of Galicia and Volhynia, thus creating both her name and her identity.

So separate and distant from his...

That day, when the sky was spattered with the red of fallen comrades, and a dark shadow cast from the onslaught of thunderclouds shattering the once-blissful blue into a horror of bleeding wounds and black bruises that so covered Ivan's beaten body as he lay broken on the frozen earth; his eldest daughter walked free from his embrace – terrified and desperate to escape the carnage that had befallen them.

Ivan had let her go. He had neither the power nor the will to hold her back. He would have been a tyrant to do otherwise, given the circumstances. He was an independent nation was utterly destroyed, and needed to rely on what little power he still possessed to raise himself to the glory he had wished for all his life. Meanwhile, she would find happiness, and this consolation had spurred him onwards to his own destiny.

But this happiness was short-lived. His daughter's ruler, Danylo Romanovych, had been forced to pledge allegiance to the ruthless Mongol leader, Batu Khan, of the Golden Horde, and consequently became his loyal dog, just as Russia himself had. Communication between father and daughter had thus decreased to mere snatches of well-wishing and desperate glances, but nothing more. Sometimes they would go for years without so much as glimpsing each-other's faces.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of Galicia's troubles. Romanovych's attempts to establish military alliances with European countries in order to escape the Mongol oppression was met with failure, and eventually the entire country declined, was overtaken by Lithuania (as well as himself at this point), and was finally divided between the kingdoms of both Lithuania and Poland, eventually becoming fully dissolved within Poland in 1569. Stripped of her power, individuality and freedom, Galicia could not resist.

Ivan still winced in agony as he relived his daughter's screams of wild despair and terror as Poland dragged her away, threw her onto his horse, and raced into the dark night, Galicia's cries ringing out raw and heart-breaking in the air long after she had disappeared from his sight.

In order to avoid the wrath of Russia, Poland had agreed that the two could meet once every four months for a duration of three weeks, before she would dutifully return to his side once again.

It was too short a time. Those mere weeks, though infinitely precious, were nothing compared to the days that had been robbed from them all those years, and those that strove to come. Ivan had been driven nearly over the edge with frustration of how quickly the days flitted by, no matter how dearly he held them, or how carefully he spent them, and had to be placated that this was the only option he could take without waging another senseless war of vengeance and spite on the world, the savageness of which could more than likely destroy the beloved daughter he had been trying to obtain.

Ivan sighed heavily and glanced almost dazedly at the ornate wooden clock high up on the wall in front of him.

His soft lavender eyes widened. No way. It couldn't be. _Nine o'clock already? _It was a full two hours over the time his daughter would normally arrive. He shook his head, disbelieving, and ventured to scour every clock in the house to make sure what he had just seen was a lie.

But he was disappointed; they all affirmed the first clock's proclamation, and served to tighten the knots congealing in his innards.

Ivan paused, and breathed deeply. Calm. Calm down, you are Russia for goodness' sake—composure is the key to success.

Having regained his former poise, Ivan made his way downstairs to the living room, approached the phone and proceeded to dial a number while pressing the receiver to his ear.

As expected, Poland answered in his usual lazy drawl.

_-Yo, Russia! For the last time, I'm not gonna become one wi— -_

'This isn't about that,' Ivan cut in soberly.

Poland paused a moment.

_-Then what's up?-_ questioned the Pole, voice strained with impatience. _-C'mon, be quick, my show's about to start!-_

'My daughter, Galicia—is she with you at the moment?' Ivan pressed, trying to keep the urgency of his voice down.

_-Huh? Nah, she left about two hours ago! Why, isn't she there yet?-_

Poland always referred to Russia as "_there_" instead of using its proper title.

Ivan forced himself to swallow and collect himself.

'No, she hasn't. I'm...I'm a little anxious,' he admitted, flushing with shame.

_-Awww, is lickle Russy-kins worried about his baby?-_ Poland mocked, relishing his chance to give Ivan a verbal blow to boost his own long-wounded ego. Russia was in a vulnerable position, and requested aid: if Poland ever wanted an opportunity to tease the powerful nation, this was it. Unfortunately, he had gravely underestimated Ivan's strength, who was characteristically more than willing to retaliate despite everything.

The Russian's violet eyes hardened, and he murmured into the receiver:

'Poland, I will blow your pitiful country to bits in a matter of hours—consequences be damned—if you don't take this seriously, get off your lazy ass and help find my daughter!'

He smirked as he heard Poland start at the other end of the line, clearly spooked by his words.

_-...Fine. I'll gather up as many of my men as possible and send them through and around the route she must've took. You'll do the same, right?-_

'Yes. Thank you. Make sure you contact me if you find her,' Ivan instructed impassively, putting the phone down before the Pole could protest. Instantly he walked purposefully to the coat-hanger on which his old beige scarf, gloves, and velvet trench-coat hung, donning them all in quick succession and holstering the old family sword and rifle which stood against the wall beside the front door on either hip, but not before checking the rifle's barrel for a full-load of bullets and the sword's sharp edge. Taking up a glimmering lantern in his left hand, Ivan Braginsky made his way out of his house and into the dark winter night.

Blood would spill again upon the virgin snow, but this time by his own wishes and will: for the daughter that was so rightfully his.

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><p>Wow, I just can't get enough of Hetalia: Axis Powers! XD It's reignited my passion for History that's been depleted somewhat due to the studying of it for so long and the revision I've been doing for the past few weeks. Hetalia also helps you find out things about countries you never knew before.<p>

In this fic's case, I learnt about the history of Russia (called Kiev Rus' before its dissolution following the Mongol Invasion in the 12/13th century, resulting in Galicia-Volhynia was eventually assimilated by the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth following the Galacia-Volhynia Wars (1340–1392), in which the two nations battled for control over the once-Russian state). By the treaty of the Lublin Union of 1569, all of the former principality of Galicia–Volhynia became part of Poland.

**Note:** Galacia-Volhynia was a Ruthenian (Ukrainian) state in the regions of Galicia and Volhynia during 1199–1349. It was one of the three most important powers to emerge from the collapse of Kievan Rus'.

So interesting! :)


	2. The House With Chicken Legs

Chapter 2: The House with Chicken Legs

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_Skilful, you eluded me._

_Growing stalk thin and green._

_The lilac scent of your skin brings tears._

_Candle__ stubs in your pockets, I know_

_You are anxiously waiting _

_For your life to begin._

_For the man on whose shoulder you will __drip__ tallow,_

_For the journey you are willing to make_

_To free yourself and him_

_From those like me, brutal in our bodies._

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The cold had its bite. Like the savage Siberian wolves, it tore through Ivan's clothes in sharp sheets of icy wind, snapping at his bare cheeks, eyes and teeth as if to strip the skin away, the latter clenched with effort. It had not been immediately obvious that the snow would be this deep and troublesome, due to the intense darkness, but with the almost relentless snowfall these past few days, it was only to be expected. But being the embodiment of Russia itself, and having endured General Winter's wrath for more years than he cared to count, Ivan was not to be deterred by such things. He knew where he was going, and who he was looking for. That was enough.

Pushing himself relentlessly through the thick white mass, every move was sluggish and forced as it fought against his legs and seemed to resist his every motion with all its power. Every loose fold of his clothes and scarf whipped back as another biting barrage of wind attacked him, threatening to blow him off his feet. Ivan braced himself, shut his burning eyes and took a difficult step back to secure his footing. Just.

Throwing his full weight forwards against the merciless force, Ivan slugged onwards through the snow, flanked on both sides by an endless sea of black trees.

Pulling his scarf around his mouth, Ivan grimaced.

_Damn…General Winter…_

Both ally and enemy.

The moon had revealed itself in all its icy opal luminance, shining through the dark so that the outlines of the trees were stark and twisted, enclosing him, like veins around a giant black eyeball.

Coldly, it illuminated both Ivan and the now gleaming white temptress cloak of snow obstinately making every move an excruciating struggle.

Ivan bore onwards with eyes wide and streaming, burning with one single objective. To retrieve what he had lost. What that snivelling bastard had taken from him that day.

Suddenly, the wind subsided, and Ivan looked about him in a daze, finding his strength draining away with the loss of opposition keeping him on his toes.

A snapping movement caught his eye, and it swerved leftwards to investigate.

The amethyst eye widened.

A traditional dark blue headwrap rimmed with beads, caught on a branch close to Ivan's head...

The familiar sight sparked a wave of memories tinged with a haunting nostalgia, like tunes from an old music box.

The pretty head round which the accessory had swathed...the neat, bunched-up silver-white locks that flowed about supple shoulders when it was removed...the voice that spoke praises for him, and the pretty lavender eyes that adored him, unconditionally and without question...All of these things were his, and had been taken away. All of these things he cherished more dearly than any intoxicating liquors of power and possession: the proof that he was more than what everyone said he was, that he was wanted, needed, _loved_...

_Galicia..._

With renewed ferocity Ivan seized the prized garment piece, stuffed it into his breast pocket and stormed through the snow, eyes alive and burning like ice in an inferno.

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The storm had calmed, an endless journey later, and Ivan found himself deeper into the black forest than he had ever been before. The trees were like rotting arms here; bare and claw-like to the extreme that disturbed even his well-raked senses, his nigh-perfect mask of unruffled calm broken for a few stark moments.

The snow lay thigh-deep now; endless and ghostly in the glow of the moon, and it suddenly seemed as if he were half embedded into the earth itself, half out of it in the sharp open air.

Looking about him with a curiosity seldom genuine, Ivan continued onwards, clutching the area in his chest where his daughter's favourite headpiece he had placed a while before, as if this would somehow guide him surely.

Presently, a rustling jerked him alert, and Ivan drew out his rifle and swung it downwards in the direction of the noise, finger on the trigger.

He froze when he saw it was merely a crow, drowning in the snow into which it had been thrown by the fierce winds, tired wings beating helplessly as it succeeded only in burying itself deeper into its icy grave.

The sheer desperation in the doomed creature's movements and the stubbornness of its instinct that kept it fighting for life moved Ivan somewhat. The nation emphasised with the creature's plight as well as its raw spirit, both of which he had been forced to acquire and endure in his darkest days.

Thus, the powerful young man put away his rifle, waded through the snow and used both gloved hands to gently pluck the bird free. Stroking its glossy black plumage, he soothed it calm, and held it to his chest in an attempt to warm the freezing creature.

The crow had stopped struggling now, and was very quiet, seeming to respond to Ivan's slow, soft and deliberate words and touches.

After a few moments, finding the bird calm and recovered, Ivan moved it away from him and lifted his arms up to allow the crow to fly from his hands and into the air.

The bird did not move, but instead turned around on its talented feet and gazed down at him with oil-drop black eyes.

Impatience rising with the urgency of his mission coming back to the forefront of his mind, Ivan moved his arms back and forth in an attempt to budge the bird off him, but in vain. The crow did not move a muscle, and remained staring fixatedly at his face, eyes gleaming.

Now Ivan was thoroughly disturbed by the creature's abnormal behaviour, and, thinking it was about to go for his face and peck his eyes out, ripped free one arm to grab the bird and throw it away from him, but as he did so...

'Thank you,' the crow said.

Ivan's jaw dropped. All thought process grinded to a steeling halt.

'W—..._Wha_...?'

'Thank you,' the bird said again, its black beak opening and shutting as it uttered the raucous words, 'for saving me. I see that you are a nice man, and the father of this nation as well as myself. But what are you doing here, so deep into the stomach of the forest?'

Ivan was too stunned to answer immediately. How much vodka had he consumed that evening? Surely nothing to induce such vivid hallucinations...But then, what was this madness?

'What are you doing here?' it repeated curiously, never reverting its piercing gaze from the nation's face.

The recollections of his reasons for having come filtered back into Ivan's mind once again, and he found the strength to muster an answer.

'I am here...to find my daughter,' he replied hoarsely, trying to regain his composure. 'She was supposed to arrive at my house several hours ago, but did not. I have been retracing her route in an attempt to recover her...dead or alive.'

'Ah!' cried the crow suddenly, ruffling its feathers and making Ivan jump despite himself. 'A girl wearing a traditional Galician headwrap and dress? She was taken along this path past my home.'

'Taken? Where?' Ivan urged, eyes wide.

'To a house with no windows and a hidden door, sitting upon four chicken legs, in which a witch dwells,' the crow replied gravely. 'I except you know whose house I am referring to?'

Ivan paled to a frightening shade unmatched by any the cold could induce. His throat dried up, and his heart felt as if it were gripped in the crow's razor talons.

'B—_Baba Yaga's house?_' he whispered. 'Impossible...'

'Not so, not so,' the bird insisted. 'Come, I shall lead you to her, in payment for your act of kindness.'

At this, the crow opened up its wings and took flight, gliding onwards down the snow-laden path. Ivan instantly followed as fast as the cold mass would allow, and was grateful that the crow never got too far ahead. Now he moved with even greater urgency, plunging and beating away his body's aches and stings as the cold air rubbed it raw. He had never given in to them, and could certainly not afford to do so now.

If he so much as stalled, his daughter was as good as eaten.

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After a while that seemed as if he were merely repeating the same desperate dash through the same snow-barraged path and same thorny black trees under the same cold moon, Ivan glimpsed a medium-sized wooden hut in the distance surrounded by an odd-looking fence. Drawing closer, guided by the crow, he saw it was far larger than he had imagined, towering over him in fact.

Now he saw, in disgust, that the fence that protected it was constructed entirely out of human skulls, grinning and ugly in the moonlight, their hollow eyes gazing at him with a kind of savage humour that made Ivan's flesh tingle.

After walking out its borders, he discovered with dismay that there was no way of entering other than to climb. But the fence itself was beyond his reach, and beyond grasping in a strong leap, despite his being tallest out of all the nations aside from Sweden.

He could attempt to ram his way through using his stocky, powerful build to his advantage...but then he would alert the witch, and effectively commit suicide by becoming her dinner along with the daughter he had gone through such trials to save.

Cursing in the bitter air, Ivan raged with despair. So close...so damn close...

'Look there,' the crow spoke up, rousing Ivan and motioning to a figure approaching them from the side. 'The witch's dog.'

It was a giant of a beast, standing a full head above Ivan himself. But, looking him over, Ivan saw he was horribly emaciated, his matted black fur drawn so tight over his bones so as to give him the appearance of a skeleton wrapped tight in plastic. It was pitiful. Its eyes were sunken and spoke only of the blind, unremitting endurance his own people expressed. It hobbled towards him, and Ivan did not even feel the need to draw either of his weapons.

Instinctively, he reached into his coat pocket and found a half-eaten piece of pork pie he had bought and saved that afternoon, and held it out for the enormous dog to eat. The docile creature lowered its massive head obediently and gobbled the treat up in one ravenous bite.

Looking up at Ivan with its doleful eyes, and spoke, in a sad, slow whine:

'Thank you—I was starving.'

'It's nothing,' Ivan replied, smiling ashamedly. 'I was not able to feed you properly.'

'But you provided food for me,' the dog maintained, 'and for that act of kindness, I will be more than willing to assist you inside Baba Yaga's house. That's why you're here, isn't it?'

Ivan nodded.

The dog lowered himself onto his huge hunches, and allowed Ivan to climb onto his spacious back, the crow perching on dog's head. Standing up and placing himself against the grisly skull fence, Ivan was able to easily climb over to the other side.

As he eased himself over the edge, Ivan turned back to his animal friends.

'I can't thank you enough for what you two have done,' he said, somewhat awkwardly. He could barely remember when he had been in the position to genuinely thank someone from his heart.

The animals shook their heads.

'We served our nation. Nothing could give us more pleasure,' they replied, seeming to smile.

Ivan Braginski smiled—the first in a while—and dropped down onto the weed-strewn front garden.

'Baba Yaga is out tonight,' the dog informed. 'But she will be back soon. Hurry and rescue your daughter before she comes back.'

'I will, thank you,' the nation responded gratefully, before approaching the front of the hut, resting on enormous chicken legs like a hen sits. But Ivan had no time to ponder on the surreality of the thing in front of him. He had something to do.

Baba Yaga's house, as the crow rightly said, had neither windows through which to enter, and the back door required a special chant to reveal it, that which Ivan had heard before when his older sister Ukraine told him stories about the famous Slavic witch. This he spoke now, in the cold silence of the night.

'_Hut, O hut, turn your back to the woods, your front to me._'

The hut shuddered, and stood up with a horrible creak as its legs raised it upwards, and turning around and sitting down again to reveal the back door to Ivan's sights. The door automatically swung upon, and Ivan stared into the inside of Baba Yaga's gruesome hovel.

Inside, he heard a voice.

'_P-Papa?..._'

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